


The Storyteller

by disaster_imp



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Halloween but make it Witchery, Psychological Horror, Saovine, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27300289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disaster_imp/pseuds/disaster_imp
Summary: Sorry about this, friends. It's horror, not reading it is self-care. Flash fiction written forthiswriting prompt.Content warnings in end notes, in case of spoilers.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 14
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge: Halloween Special





	The Storyteller

The children are gathering by the old tree for Saovine. It's almost noon, and Louisa smiles to herself from her perch on a low branch, on the other side of the clearing. Her mother would be horrified at such indecorum. Well, her mother need never know. She jumps down, smoothing her dress, still new, a pristine creamy-white, the tailored bodice perfectly fitted and neatly decorated with lace and brocade and tiny beads. Puffy sleeves, gathered just above her elbows, are trimmed with a fine lace that brushes softly against her arm when she moves. 

She winces at a small tear in the full skirt. It's her only nice dress, now, and so she must look after it more carefully. 

Anxiously taking as deep a breath as the snugly fitted bodice will permit, she picks up her skull from the base of the tree, and makes her way to the centre of the circle of children. It's a little early in the day for ghost stories, but well... she remembers how it is to be so young, the thrill of fear, the shocking impact when the climax of a well-told ghost story is delivered with flawless timing.

Thirteen children, sitting in a circle, watching her with the wide, expectant eyes while she spins her tale. Thirteen pairs of eyes, some more frightened than others, some with worse things to return home to than a silly old ghost story. A dramatic reveal, and several children gasp in unison, followed by sighs of relief as the tale changes direction to something harmless. A small pair of hands grip a doll for comfort, one short squeal at a particularly scary part, muffled shrieks and giggling as her story comes to an end. The children bicker, teasing each other over who was more scared, who jumped the most; furtive glances and bravado, the older ones clamouring to insist that they were the least afraid out of anyone.

Louisa smiles happily, pleased to have entertained them so thoroughly.

  
Noon approaches, and the children are gathering by the old tree again. Right on time, Louisa thinks, looking at the sun, smiling to herself as she jumps down from her perch on a low branch on the far side of the clearing. She smooths down her dress, the creamy white fabric starting to fray a little at the edges. She pats at her hair, hoping that, at least, is still tidy, picks up her skull from the foot of the tree and makes her way over to the small group, counting heads. 

Thirteen children, she is pleased to see, and she searches for names to connect to the faces, but her mind draws a blank. Well, it's not like she lives in town, or sees them very often. She is _older_ than they, after all. Waving the thought away, she steps into the centre of the group, the anticipation on their sweet young faces easing her anxiety over performing as she launches into another story. She has a talent for this, she knows. The pitch of her voice, the pacing, the tone, all spun together to tell a tale that provokes an occasional shriek, a gasp, an expression at once both terrified and fascinated. 

  
The children are gathering by the old tree again. Right on time, Louisa thinks, smiling to herself from her perch on a low branch, on the other side of the clearing. She smooths down her dress a little sadly, the fabric starting to discolour with age, the fraying ends increasing with time. A few more rips and tears have appeared in the hem of her skirt and along the lace edgings. Well, it fits with the theme of Saovine, she supposes, but it's a little sad to see her beautiful dress deteriorate so much when she cannot buy another.

Thirteen children, she is pleased to see, and she picks up her skull from the base of her tree, making her way once more to the centre of the circle to charm, and frighten, and charm again, the children who come for her stories.

  
Louisa sits on her perch on a low branch, across the clearing from the old tree. The children haven't come, and it is almost noon. She smooths her dress, now stained and tattered and ragged, picks up her skull from where she had left it at the foot of the tree, and approaches the place where the children usually sit. 

Instead of the children, there is a man. Powerfully large and brutish, scars marring one side of his face, he kneels at the edge of the storytelling ring, head bowed as if waiting for something. 

The rustle of her ragged skirts alerts him to her approach, and when he looks up, his eyes are a soulless, inky black. Louisa hisses in fear, taking a step back, but the demon is upon her in moments, his movements faster than she can track, faster than a viper, sword slicing through her chest with a cruel and vicious swipe. It _burns_. She has never felt so much pain, and her last thought before her vision darkens is to hope that the children, _her children,_ are safe from this monster in the shape of a man.

  
Cleaning the excess oil from his silver sword before sheathing it, Eskel picks up the skull dropped by the wraith. He turns it sadly over in his hands before tossing it on top of the pile. He sets fire to the entire collection with a strong blast of igni, letting go of his control enough to match it with an incoherent scream of rage and frustration and regret.

Thirty-three years, since he took this contract. Thirty-three years, until he was able to complete it. Thirteen children who would have been adults with their own families by now, dead because he didn't figure it out in time. Disappearances spanning a hundred years. Thirteen children, every thirty-three years. Thirty-nine too-small skulls, thirty-nine sets of children's bones. He tries not to think about the what-ifs as he turns away, tries to focus on having stopped _this_ gruesome harvest, along with any future ones. 

He whistles for Scorpion, fully intending to drink himself into oblivion when he makes camp tonight. 

**Author's Note:**

> !!Content warnings!!
> 
> Child killings (no specific/graphic details or gore)  
> Self-blame  
> Drinking to forget
> 
> Rage at me in the comments, whatever helps you sleep.


End file.
